Burning the Tapestry
by VaticanCameos123
Summary: "There is no moment of realisation. It's a process. There are long term causes, short term causes, and best of all; a spark. That's how it's all supposed to work, right? That's what it seemed like for me." A short story of how Regulus Black became disillusioned.
1. The Man in the Stone Cottage

"**I follow him to serve my turn upon him.**

**We cannot all be masters, nor all masters**

**Cannot be truly followed." _1.1_**

_Iago in Shakespeare's 'Othello_'

* * *

There is no moment of realisation.

It's a process. There are long term causes, short term causes, and best of all; a spark. That's how it's all supposed to work, right?

That's what it seemed like for me.

So how did I begin to realise that the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, You Know Who, Lord Voldemort himself, was not the idol I had worshipped and adored for so many years? I would love to tell you that it was simple. I would love to say I had a sudden epiphany, and I saw the error of my ways and how to atone for my sins. But I did not. It happened as a result of the long term causes, the short term causes, the spark. Yes. That spark. Perhaps that was the only glorious element of my realisation. And the outcome of that realisation? Well, that _has_ to be saved for later. I don't want to give the best and most magnificent chapter of my story away now, do I?

In my youth, I admired the dark arts, and wanted to be among the great dark wizards as other children wanted to be aurors. I had this hero complex about men such as Emeric the Evil and Merwyn the Malicious. I think I might have been one of the only students in the year that paid attention in History of Magic lessons.

But no, my obsession grew beyond mere school work. Encouraged by my parents, who, in comparison to my perhaps more decent, rebellious brother, doted upon me, I became more engaged in my study of the dark arts. Though that was all I was involved in; _study_. I loved admiring the dark arts. I loved its secrets, its mystery, and I admit, its sense of righteousness. We, the pure, deserved to rule, as we were not corrupted like the other dregs of humanity. That was what I thought, what we _all_ thought, and indeed many still do.

I remember the day when the dark arts completely seduced me. The day that my study transcended mere theory and my practical study began. My _friends_ (for want of a better word) arrived at the front door of my parents' house in the dead of night, barely a month after I had received my, naturally phenomenal, NEWT results- for all they counted for; they may as well have been all Ts.

I had not known Mulciber, Avery, and Rosier for very long, yet towards the end of their time in Hogwarts, I began to gravitate towards them and a few others, such as Snape, Lestrange, and Wilkes, as I knew of their involvement in the arts which had completely seduced me. It was the first three who appeared at the door that night.

Kreacher awoke me, and I walked sluggishly to the door with my wand alight, and stared at them all, dumbstruck and bleary-eyed. I had not seen them since their last day at Hogwarts, and even then we had not separated as completely bosom friends, more close acquaintances. I could barely identify them, as their faces were almost fully in the dark. The effect was that their faces were almost skull-like, or had the appearance of a mask.

"Enjoying a quiet night in, Black?" crowed Rosier, smirking. Rosier, being the tallest of the three, was clearly the ringleader in this small band of men. I noticed Kreacher shifting his feet nervously beside the door, wringing the rags he was wearing with his small, thin hands.

"Please leave us, Kreacher" I said quietly to the elf, and he immediately obeyed with a deep bow. I turned to my three visitors ", what is it you are here for?"

"We know of somebody you might like to meet." said Rosier, and his tone was grave now, with no sign of a joke. His wingmen behind him stirred slightly.

"Who?" I shot back at him. Mulciber moved again, and coughed. A chink of the light which came from the wand I held found its way onto his face, and I nearly recoiled. His face, which had always been reminiscent of a pig, had taken on a gaunt quality. This was not improved by the small smile which 'graced' his face. Rosier sighed theatrically, and smiled at his cronies, rolling his eyes.

"You _must_ have heard of him. Whispers of our new leader, ring any bells?" Avery cut in, sticking his long nose so far ahead, that it too found its way into the wand light, creating the strange image of a floating pale nose in the darkness. Rosier hissed something at Avery, which I couldn't hear exactly. Avery stepped back, affronted.

"I…think I have heard some rumours, yes." I said stiffly. And so I had; by then, tales of a man had indeed circulated amongst the Black family. A man who promised to purify us all. A man who some had already begun to rally around. Evidently, Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber were some of these.

And so, I went with them. How could I not, when even my own family spoke of this Dark Lord with close to reverential tones? Father had just that morning, behind his newspaper, barked his disapproval of our deteriorating society, and how such a man would do far better than the drones in power at that time.

I had been romanced that very night by the group. It seemed to adhere to all of my idle adolescent dreams and parental expectations. The man spoke with such cold clarity, that one could not help but worship. I apparated alongside Rosier into a lonely and derelict manor house on the outskirts of some city, and I was not allowed to learn the location until much later. The mystery had already begun to draw me in. I was greeted with cordiality, and given praise and thanks, I was made to believe that what I was becoming part of was something great, something monumental. Now, I know otherwise.

I was branded with the mark, and from that point onward, my life was altered in a way which I could never have anticipated. My admiration for the dark arts was tested, and in due course, it held for a long time. But that admiration could only stand so much, and eventually, as of course you know, It started to wane.

The long term causes of this cannot be easily pinpointed. I suppose it was a few small events that can be stringed together in my mind which helped to chip away at my idolisation of this man, the Dark Lord. One event in particular sticks out in my mind.

I had been serving the Dark Lord amongst my fellow _Death Eaters_ (for that had become our name, of sorts) for around six months. Proudly too, I might add. And what did 'serving' entail, you ask? I'm sure you've heard the rumours. Killing, torturing, blackmailing…anything that happened upon our Master's fancy. I felt I had gained 'friends'. And yes, Rosier, Avery, and Mulciber were the merry band with whom I went on 'adventures'. And this event _was_ one of those.

It was in March, and the breath of winter had not quite dissipated from the country, and it could be felt all the more potently in the place where we had been instructed to go to, that is, on the island of Mull, in Scotland. We were told to seek out a muggle-born journalist who'd written slander and vilification against our Master in the most recent _Prophet_. And for that, this poor whelp, this Gregory Sinclair was completely and utterly doomed.

We apparated at the door of a lonely little stone cottage, which stood bravely against the wrath of the wind which howled and roared at it, trying with all its might to bring it down. Perhaps it needed some help from us.

"Here we go then, boys!" boomed Rosier jovially from under his black hooded cloak. We all laughed accordingly, and Rosier knocked on the door of the cottage three times.

No answer.

He knocked twice again. The same result came from it. This time, having lost what little patience he possessed, Rosier kicked the door, and to his surprise, his foot went through the rotted wood.

"Shit!" He screamed, and Mulciber immediately doubled up, wheezing with laughter. Rosier, with a little trouble, pulled his food out of the door and rounded on Mulciber.

"What the _fuck_ is so funny?" said Rosier, in a dangerously quiet voice which somehow resounded over the sound of the wind.

"Sorry," Mumbled Mulciber, straightening up. He sniffed, and wiped his eyes.

"I'm glad you're sorry. We aren't here for laughs."

He sure could have fooled me.

Eventually, Rosier managed to force the door open. One-by-one, we entered a dank, dingy room, with one roughly hewn wooden table in its centre surrounded by four stools. A modest, unfinished supper of bread and cheese still lay on its surface. But what gave Gregory Sinclair away was the blue fire, burning blithely in a dirty jar on the window sill.

"Here's here." Breathed Avery in his characteristically nasal tone. Rosier pulled a mock face of understanding and nodded towards the entrance to the next room, though which only darkness could be seen. He thumped me on the back, and I felt an ice cold chill rack my body out of fear and anticipation. I did not dispute Rosier's instruction. I crept slowly forward, cursing the sounds of my feet made on the flagstones. I heard Rosier's rasp whisper behind my start up again. He had made it impossible to apparate from the cottage. That was, now I think about it, rather pointless. The man would have left if he wanted to by now; Rosier had not exactly been as quiet as a phantom before.

I walked on, nonetheless. By the time I had reached the entrance to the next room, I began to detect a noise of laboured breathing, and it was clear that the occupant was finding it difficult to conceal it. The room had a strange scent, as if the occupant had not left for many years. This was not what I was expecting. The man had written in the _Daily Prophet_, and this did not seem the place for an uppity journalist to live in. I turned to the three men behind me who waited with bated breath. I gave one short nod to them, whispered a quick _lumos_, and headed inside. The light barely pierced the thick darkness at all.

"Do your worst." a hoarse voice with a thick accent sounded from the corner of the room. I took a sharp intake of breath in surprise, and beckoned to the other three over my shoulder.

"I would if I could see you, sir." I managed to say, squinting into the room to locate the source of the voice. The next second, I found this was no longer necessary, as a sharp flare of light illuminated the room, as the man had lit his wand.

"My pleasure." He grunted. I now had a full view of the room. In this tiny room, just around three single beds had been crammed, allowing room for a rocking chair in the corner. The man who I presumed was Gregory Sinclair sat in the chair.

He was dirty beyond comprehension, so dirty that it was difficult to immediately distinguish him from the grey stone background in front of which he sat. His straggly, iron grey hair speckled with brown was long and matted, accompanied by a bushy grey beard. His skin with almost equally as grey, and the wrinkles which adorned his face looked like crumpled parchment. His clothes, while being typical office robes, were just as bedraggled.

"Your pleasure sir? I think you'll be finding it's _ours_." snarled Rosier, pushing me into the door frame, almost winding me.

"If this is what you need to be happy, then so be it." Sinclair sighed.

"What is _that_ meant to mean?" Rosier said, looking bemused.

"If you think clever words will help you now, then that's where you're wrong, mister!" Avery sneered, obviously proud of his 'quick' retort.

The old man barked a laugh, which sounded much more like a cough, yet the folds that appeared at the corners of his eyes told of amusement.

"You have a lot to learn, boy. Maybe you'll never learn it."

I was not sure if the others noticed it, but I could discern, (not easily, from the dirt on his face) what I thought were tears in his eyes. I could not help but pity him. He was dangerously thin, and he shook violently from the cold.

"Enough with this. To business, Mr. Sinclair." Rosier stated, his voice taking on a hollow, formal quality.

"Glad to hear it, boy." Sinclair nodded shortly.

"We are here in response of an article in the _Daily Prophet_."

Sinclair folded his hands in his lap, considering Rosier.

"I thought you would, right enough. You took your time."

In response to that, Mulciber snorted derisively. Rosier shot him a look of warning.

"You wrote this yourself?"

"Sent it in by owl myself." Sinclair confirmed, smiling faintly.

"Then you know what to expect," Rosier smirked, and turned to me "Could you do the honours, Black?"

Mulciber and Avery sniggered again, waiting for my reaction. I swallowed, finding my throat dry. I was not usually the one to carry out the _deed_. Rosier was the one to take the spotlight in most cases. I nodded, remaining silent.

"We'll be going then," Rosier smiled in a way that was so calm it was threatening "Come on,"

They left, following behind Rosier, presumably to wait outside the cottage. Mulciber cast me a gleeful look, and Avery hissed, "Good luck, Black."

When the door of the cottage slammed shut behind them, all that remained was an almost deafening silence. I turned to look at Gregory Sinclair. His calm smile made my stomach churn.

"So, whose line is it then?" He chuckled quietly. I stepped towards him, trying to tower over him in an intimidating way. I ignored his remark.

"Who else lives here?" I asked, glancing at the other two beds.

"No one." He answered quickly, suddenly defensive. I took some more steps forward, and I narrowed my eyes at him, willing myself to feel some form of hatred for that pathetic little man.

"Are you sure about that one?" I challenged him, and I lifted my lit wand to point into his face. He closed his eyes.

"Kill me, sir, do what you will. Just don't ask that, please." He whispered. I felt a strong surge of pity for him, but reminded myself of what I had to do.

"We _will_ find them, in any case." I tried to imitate the Dark Lord's high cold laugh, but unsuccessfully. It simply sounded girlish.

"You won't tell them" Gregory Sinclair opened his eyes, and looked me squarely in the face ", you are not the same as them."

My eyes widened at the strength of his gaze.

"If you knew what was good for you, you'd stick to the subject." I hissed.

"You are no barbarian. You, boy, do not belong to the devils." He laughed.

"You speak like a _muggle_." My voice rose in volume hysterically, the wand which was pointed in his face shivered, ever so slightly. Cold sweat began to drench my forehead.

"One day, you'll realise that isn't the worst quality there is," the man's taunting smile widened "perhaps you already know."

"AVADA KEDAVRA!" I shrieked. Green light flooded the small room, momentarily making it appear as if it were lit by brilliant daylight.

The man slumped in his chair; a small smile still remained on his face.

I left the stone cottage, and did not speak a word until we had left that godforsaken place. The words of the old man haunted me thereafter. That was one of the long term causes. The seed was planted in my head. My sense of self-righteousness had started to erode. Maybe the 'career' I had always wanted was not the dream I had imagined.

* * *

**A/N: I did this for a challenge on HPFF, and I know I'm being bad because I should be working on 'Tears of a Clown', but that shall remain my main baby :') Still, I'll be carrying on with this, and it'll be short. I've always felt some sympathy towards Regulus, because of the way he almost had to die, and he was quite young when he died too. I think he was, in the main, fundamentally good. Anyway. I hope you've enjoyed this, and please review, and tell me anything I could improve on!**


	2. The Girl in Silverlands

I won't lie to you, my early life as Death Eater saw me thriving and happy. I was one of many, belonging to a united front where we all shared a common hate; anyone and everyone who wasn't one of us. Admittedly, I did not know every single one of my comrades, as even when we were all assembled in meetings we were masked. It seemed I was normally confined to the merry band of Mulciber, Avery and Rosier, with the occasional appearance of Dolohov who, for some reason, I could never really like.

We always did what He told us to do. We tortured and murdered not only muggles or mudbloods, but also any witch or wizard stupid (or brave, on hindsight) enough to stand in our way. It began with a small piece of paper sent by an owl tapping at the window of wherever I happened to be staying, a random location scrawled on the paper, followed by a rendezvous, ending in either failure or success. Failure only meaning a delayed success.

One such time, I received such a note while staying with my parents. I'd only just begun to wake up, when I was made alert by a faint tapping at the window. Immediately, I swung my legs out of the bed, wincing as my feet hit the cold wooden floor. I padded over to the window and threw open the green hangings, where an owl waited impatiently to be let in. I fumbled with the window clasp, not entirely recovered from my deep sleep, it flew in, and I retrieved the note from it. It read:

_Silverlands_

_ Buxton_

_ Derbyshire_

_ A.S.A.P._

The thrill of adventure made me almost giddy in my preparations, as it always did, and as always, it was accompanied with some trepidation. I donned a set of robes quickly, stuffing a jangling bag full of galleons in the pocket and made for the front door. I didn't stop at hearing my parents' low mumbles from the dining room.

I apparated into a sleepy, heavily suburbanised area, with quaint little terraced grey stoned houses. Hardly anybody was outside, and I had to strain my eyes to catch sight of the postman, barely visible through the morning fog that had descended upon the place. I couldn't see anybody else, let alone Rosier, Mulciber or Avery. It just didn't seem right to me.

They were usually prompt. _Well_, maybe Mulciber was sometimes late. We tended to stay in the meeting place for as little time as possible. I leant against a tree, deciding to wait. They would turn up eventually. With one last cautious look around me, focusing on the postman in particular (one couldn't be too careful) I rested my eyes, still feeling the effects of an abrupt awakening.

It felt like a while before I became faintly aware of someone tapping my shoulder. And apparently, yelling.

"Hello, sir? Wake up, are you ill!?" a high pitched feminine voice said. I opened my eyes, turning my head. The source of the voice had reverted to searching in her overlarge green trench coat pockets.

"Oh god oh god, I have to phone for an ambulance…" she muttered madly to herself, not noticing that I was looking at her, totally bewildered. I remembered vaguely that an ambulance was what muggles called the type of car which takes ill people to their hospitals. It wasn't like their insane medication could help _anyone_, let alone me.

"I'm fine, you know," I sighed, smirking. I had to be patient. She'd go away soon. The girl's wide, panicky eyes darted to my face, and before I could stop her, she uttered a shriek, which echoed down the street. Thankfully, the postman I had seen earlier had moved on.

"Jeeeeeeeeesus. Ohmygod," she panted, holding her mitten-covered hand to her heart. I looked away from her, exasperated. These people were so easy to shock. So easy to harm in general, really.

"You can go back to what you were doing now," I said to her, eager for her to leave, so I could apparate away without observation. It was clear that lingering in this place any longer could be dangerous. Or leaving could be dangerous. I didn't know.

"I was only getting the paper!" she held up a roll of newspaper, as if to show evidence against something I was accusing her of ", and I thought you'd OD'd or something! You're so pale, s'an easy mistake."

"I'm sure." I said shortly, not having the faintest idea what being 'OD'd' was. I looked around anxiously. I really did have to leave soon. Something wasn't right.

"Y'sure you're not ill? You look a bit on edge, if you don't mind me saying," she noted, screwing the newspaper around in her hands nervously. She certainly had a penchant for hovering.

"I do mind you saying actually. Can you leave?" I shot back at her, frustrated. She stepped back, clearly hurt.

"No need to be so rude 'bout it." she mumbled. She reminded me of a scolded child. As all of her kind did, now I came to it. She turned away from me, and began fumbling at the lock on the gate of the house directly behind me. I coughed, and looked at her pointedly. She glanced over her shoulder.

"I do live here. Can't help that, can I?"

As soon as she had managed to get the gate open, and the door had shut behind her, I sighed in relief, massaging the bridge of my nose, and vainly attempting to calm my frantic heart from thundering against my ribcage. A furious debate raged in my mind. Should I leave now, escape whatever had prevented all three of my friends from reaching this place? Or would I get punished? On top of all of that, interactions with one of the putrid masses of muggles always tended to tense me up. I had always felt hugely uncomfortable with talking to any of them, and not only because it had been drilled into me that they were vermin from when I was a screaming, kicking baby. I could never put my finger on what the feeling was.

In hindsight, maybe it was guilt.

I made my mind up to stay. If I left, it could be taken to mean that I had bailed on them, and I knew for a fact that Mulciber, Rosier or Avery would relish the chance of 'telling on me', despite our apparent close friendship. So, I leant against the tree again, careful not to allow sleep to overcome me. In fact, this time, I barely allowed myself time to blink. My eyes burned with strain.

And I waited. And waited. I waited so long, that the bleary little neighbourhood that I had found myself in had begun to wake up, yawning and stretching like the little people that started to walk the pavements. I examined each person's face, just looking for a sign that one of them was a Death Eater in disguise. Not one of them appeared to have any secret darker than an extra biscuit pinched from the tin.

"Hey, Mr Tortured Soul!"

I turned around, reluctantly. It was the girl again. The door open, she stood on the welcome mat, arms folded like an angry mother. She had changed into an Aran knit jumper, and her hair hung long and dark in a plait down her shoulder. Adorably muggle and domestic. She was talking to _me_.

"Nana told me to ask you if you wanted a cup of tea. 'Said it's cold outside."

I narrowed my eyes in response. How could someone be so foolish as to trust a random stranger caught having a doze out in the street? This was beyond stupid, even for a muggle. During my jaunts out with Mulciber, Rosier, and Avery, we rarely were sent to interrogate, torture or kill muggles, they were only sport. This would not even be fun in the slightest.

"I would prefer to stay here. Thank you," I replied icily. She raised her eyebrows coolly.

"Some people consider loitering a crime, you know!"

"Do they?" I said, without thinking, turning back, gazing shrewdly down the street. This conversation was totally absurd. From behind the girl, shuffling footsteps could be heard, followed by the hoarse voice of an old woman.

"Give him a mug outside, if he won't come in, there's a dear, Wendy. He looks ready to freeze, in that strange outfit too!"

I closed my eyes in frustration, and began muttering unintelligible curses quietly under my breath. I couldn't make them go away here; it was in broad daylight. Not to mention the fact that if any of my _friends_ saw me with them, they would…they would…

Surely I shouldn't have minded what they did?

"Here you go!" chirped the ever annoying girl, apparently called Wendy, shoving a steaming mug of tea beneath my nose.

"Leave it on the wall by the house, Wendy, he's a shy one!" croaked the old crone from the threshold.

"Can't I just get some peace?" I said, exasperated.

"Maybe you could in a city. But this is a nice neighbourhood. We like to _know_ people here," she replied matter-of-factly.

"How lovely for you,"

"What's your name, anyway?" she asked, unconcernedly picking off stray split ends in her hair with apparent relish.

"Tony Davis," I said quickly. It was the name I usually used, for her kind.

"You don't look like a Tony,"

"Do you want me to answer a questionnaire?" I hissed at her, perhaps more angrily than was required.

"Hiya _Tony_, how the hell are you doing?" boomed a familiar voice.

I spun around, plunging my hand into the pocket of my robes for my wand, and saw Mulciber standing there, smiling a soppy grin, which I just knew hid a sneer. In truth, I knew at that moment, I should have felt relief. There was no immediate disaster, putting me in serious risk of ending up in Azkaban. I was fairly sure all of my friends were okay. But I felt some trepidation in the pit of my stomach, and felt my face drop.

"Hello," I said stiffly, glancing at Wendy from the corner of my eye. She was looking at Mulciber with rapt attention, and the fact that he was not wearing muggle clothes, like me, had clearly been noticed.

"Are we off then, _Tony_? We should have been gone a while now…" he said, the meaningful glance he gave me was not missed. He'd caught my attention. There was nothing for it.

"Thank you for the tea," I murmured to Wendy, wishing Mulciber could not hear it. The tea remained cold and forgotten on the wall, perhaps a little reminiscent of Wendy herself.

So I left, going around the corner and disappearing, neither expecting nor wanting to speak to that dumpy, muggle girl who wore overlarge clothes again.

It happened to be that Mulciber, Rosier and Avery had all gone without me, and had already completed the task of locating a group of conspiring mudbloods and half-bloods. Therefore, the only consequence was that they spent a good hour trying to make me feel guilty and/or envious.

This happened when we had reunited in a closed pub, in a place on the outskirts of Manchester. Almost all of the Death Eaters he was acquainted with were crammed inside that dirty establishment, their unwashed bodies adding to the stench of stale muggle tobacco and cheap lager.

"They could have left some of their drink behind, stingy bastards!" moaned Avery, kicking through the many empty glass bottles like a child kicking through fallen leaves behind the bar. Rosier, who was sprawled out on the bar counter itself, puffing on a pipe emitting putrid smoke opened one eye lazily, glancing at Avery.

"You've not got the stomach for it, even their watery mud. You'd be on the floor before you knew it," he said in a dry voice. Mulciber sniggered.

"I don't know what you're laughing at, Mulciber! You don't have the brains for _anything_," snapped Avery, red faced. Mulciber stopped laughing promptly, and his face took on a very ugly expression.

"I had enough brains to realise that little boy was nearly sneaking out the back door before you did, _Avery_. You didn't even know he was in the house at all, did you?"

"Oh yeah" Rosier said, half coughing, half laughing ", forgot about him. Sneaky little bugger, he was,"

"Oi, Black! You missed out, alright," Avery jeered. Order restored. I gave him an apologetic smile from the bar stool I sat on. I had always found it quite funny, how quickly an argument could brew, and how quickly It could be dispelled.

"I thought something had happened, when I was waiting for you all," I confessed.

"Yeah, you should have seen him! White as a sheet!" remembered Mulciber fondly.

They sat in silence for some time, the rabble around them beginning to quieten slightly as more Death Eaters pulled up their hoods, guaranteeing conspicuousness, and filing out of the pub.

"She was a pretty one, her, Black," thought Mulciber out loud suddenly. I stiffened.

"Who?" I snapped, though I was fully aware of who he meant.

"Your muggle girl, she had a nice look about her,"

"_What?_" hissed Dolohov.

I almost jumped out of my skin. I had not realised that Dolohov had been so close. As it turned out, he was in the booth directly next to the bar, opposite Severus Snape and another man I did not know. I shuddered inwardly and braced myself for conflict. It wasn't rare that a meaningless brawl would happen amongst us, just as had been demonstrated earlier.

"I have no idea who she is, and frankly, I couldn't care less. I was just stood there waiting for this lot, and she offered me tea," I said, attempting a balanced tone. Severus looked up, eyeing me.

"How _lovely_!" cried Avery in a mocking voice. Dolohov did not relinquish his threatening pose.

"Did you take it?" he shot at me, dangerously.

"Of course I didn't!" I shouted, directly in Dolohov's face. A horrible silence followed, and I noticed that everyone in the pub had gone silent. Even Rosier was holding his pipe half an inch away from his slightly opened mouth. The feeling of dread settled itself in my stomach. Dolohov raised his eyebrows, and with no further ado, he burst out into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I relaxed, and it seemed the scene had unfrozen itself. People began talking again and Rosier took a drag from his pipe. Avery looked visibly disappointed.

Normal conversation ensued once more, yet I decided to make a hasty excuse to leave. I had no desire to stay here any longer. I got up, and like all the others who were leaving, pulled up my hood, and exited the pub. When outside, I took a deep gulp of the fresh air which had been thoroughly lacking in that little tavern. I took one step beyond the door, but felt a hand clasp my shoulder. An icy cold terror filled my lungs. But it was not Dolohov. It was Snape.

"Regulus. I have to say something," he said, looking around cautiously for eavesdroppers.

I did not know Severus Snape well, let alone well enough to be on first name terms. However, I often felt a pang of guilt upon seeing him. My dear brother, whatever he may seem to me now, had mercilessly taunted him, and I had felt some weight of responsibility.

"What is it you want, Snape?" I asked warily, in the same hushed tone. I couldn't be sure, but I could have sworn I saw something remarkably close to sympathy in his eyes.

"I just want to say, I hope you are aware of the consequences which may come from any…affiliation you may have made," Snape said slowly. I stared at him, completely and utterly confused.

"What are you-

"This _girl_, Regulus! Please don't be so thick-skulled about this!"

"What? The muggle?" I laughed in his face.

"Now you listen to me," he came closer, I could now see his hooked nose, pale in the moonlight "someone will be interested. That girl is no longer safe."

I laughed again.

"But she only offered me a cup of tea!" I exclaimed. As it turned out, Snape had apparated with a loud crack. I was speaking in vain. With one last sigh of exasperation, I apparated too, appearing many miles away in a matter of seconds.

**A/N: *Phew* Sorry it took me ages to write this. I haven't been writing that much, due to holidays, procrastination and…No, that's it. I've got a banner for it though, yay! Hopefully I'll get the next chapter done in the next week or so…emphasis on the 'hopefully'. **


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